Age Recommendation: 16+
A prisoner of war, sentenced to die as a gladiator, becomes embroiled in the politics of the kingdom after the princess takes an interest.
A dull roar filled the cramped space, the thundering of feet far above their heads, knocking sand and dust down and making the air even harder to breathe than it already was.
The gladiator was hunched over, their back aching from the position, wrists tied to ankles. They hadn't fought yet, so they might not even be called a gladiator, but it was what they sold as. A fighter. Defeated and captured.
One of the more senior fighters walked around freely, getting more and more animated as the crowd outside grew louder. He paused, making a decision and stalked over to the newcomer, cooking their foot.
"Oi. You were a soldier. The mark on your shoulder, that's Narcissus. Or were you just fans of those red-headed freaks?"
The gladiator ignored him, looking blankly at the cuffs binding them. The senior spat on their head, "Oi! I'm talking to you, slave! You will look at me."
They raised their head slowly, and he smiled down at them, "That's better. You are a slave. That's what being a gladiator is. There are rules to this. Do you understand? You don't get to kill. Not unless they say so. And they, are the people who choose whether we live or die. So don't fuck with them."
The soldier shrugged and looked back down at their restraints. The senior's foot crashed into their shoulder with a solid crunch as the elbow was torn tight. The man laughed loudly, "And now, I guess you're a dead one."
"Brassia!" A guard erupted, "Fall in line. Don't damage the goods. Fuck's sake. It's brand new stock."
They was a crunch and guard and gladiator alike looked at the newcomer who had just relocated their elbow. They didn't look up, or even react to the pain. The guard whistled, "Well. I guess they really were a soldier."
Brassia laughed, a rumbling sound, "This will be fun. I get to fight it don't I?"
"Sure. You're supposed to wipe the floor, but don't kill." The guard stated confidently, "A gentle introduction. Speaking of, you're up."
The gladiator took the offered warhammer, and planted the handle on the ground with an impact that shook the floor, "Don't attack the guard, soldier. You're worth less than the food they feed us. If you fight well, you might be worth more. Is that clear?"
The soldier shrugged, and then shocked the both of them by standing up, the chains falling off them. A small fragment of something white was sticking out of one of the locks. The soldier took a sword and shield from the wall and walked straight for the arena floor without a second look.
Behind them, Brassia followed, dragging his hammer across the floor with him, "This is going to be interesting."
The soldier came to a stop in the middle of the arena, and turned to face Brassia as he cheered to the crowd, flexing and screaming. Nearby an announcer was speaking with a deafening voice that could almost be heard above the assaulting volume of the crowd.
The gladiator turned and hefted his warhammer, "Let's put on a show."
The soldier darted forward. The hammer came crashing down onto the shield, crushing it in an instant. However, the shield slammed into the ground, nothing beneath it. Brassia looked around in confusion, not seeing the soldier.
The base of the sword hit the back of his neck, knocking the giant to his hands and knees. The soldier placed the tip at the base of his neck, "Don't. Move."
The crowd went quiet in shock, before erupting into a frenzy of applause. The soldier looked up to the elevated platform where their new owners were seated, and saw the man in charge lift his thumb.
The soldier tossed the sword to the ground.
Brassia lifted himself upright, leaning on his warhammer, "Fuck, soldier, that hurt. I said we were putting on a show. How did you even do that?"
They looked at him blankly, not answering.
© Copyright 2024, James Milne